


hindsight twenty-twenty

by rohkeutta



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern: No Powers, Bearded Steve Rogers, Fluff and Humor, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, Love Confessions, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Mutual Pining, New Year's Eve, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, do not copy to another site
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-02
Updated: 2020-01-02
Packaged: 2021-02-24 19:47:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22083493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rohkeutta/pseuds/rohkeutta
Summary: Their last New Year’s Eve of the decade is quiet.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 132
Kudos: 937





	hindsight twenty-twenty

**Author's Note:**

> Happy 2020!  
> Thank you to Alby for a swift beta, and Nabu, Frosty, and Meg for being my test audience!

Their last New Year’s Eve of the decade is quiet.

Sam is at work and Natasha trekking somewhere in Patagonia, so Steve and Bucky sit on Bucky’s couch in Bushwick, decimating a party platter of sushi and watching a documentary about Alaska on Nat Geo. It’s the first NYE since 2013 where it’s just the two of them, and usually they wouldn’t have a problem figuring out something to do—going out without Sam and Nat has traditionally meant that they can both find someone to hook up with and leave with no hard feelings. 

But Bucky has a fractured ankle and a clunky walking boot, thanks to slipping on ice-crusted subway stairs two days before Christmas, and Steve’s not the kind of person to abandon his best friend on New Year’s Eve. Especially when he’s also in love with him.

“You don’t have to,” Bucky had protested feebly when Steve turned up with the sushi platter and a bottle of bubbly under his arm. “Don’t miss out for my sake.”

“Miss out? Pal, you’re doing me a favor,” Steve said. “You  _ know _ what Williamsburg will be like tonight. There’s only so much microbrew a guy can drink without wanting to strangle someone. Besides, the finest man bun in town is here anyway.” 

Bucky made a face that meant he was secretly pleased and let Steve in, hobbling back to the couch and trusting Steve to find the little soy cups and drinking glasses from the tiny kitchen. Carrying his bounty to Bucky, Steve settled in for a slow night in, happy to be chilling instead of having to impress some nameless twink in a biergarten—and cheerfully ignoring the fact that he actually hadn’t felt like having a one night stand in months. 

He liked to blame it on stress, but his self-administered celibacy had conveniently started around the time Bucky had offhandedly mentioned uninstalling his hookup apps, seeming uncharacteristically subdued about it. It might have been just Bucky’s 30s crisis where he found Jesus and swore off booze and casual sex, but he’d most definitely been drinking an extra strong gin&tonic when he told Steve about it, so that theory was shaky. Most likely it had been just Bucky—a hopeless romantic under his nonchalant shell—wanting to put his energy into finding a relationship and laying down some roots.

Steve’s decision to uninstall Grindr in the bar bathroom twenty minutes later had been a simple coincidence. That’s all. No ten-years-old unrequited crushes that had recently flamed up again there, no sir.

It’s the sad truth, though, that his private Pinterest board for fall wedding inspiration has been steadily expanding ever since. There is, after all, only one twink he wants to impress, biergarten or no.

*

Apart from the occasional snap-crackle-pop of fireworks, it doesn’t even feel like it's New Year’s Eve: after the one and a half maki rolls that remain from the 50-piece platter have been dumped, they turn reruns of MasterChef Australia on. Steve sits squished into one end of the couch with Bucky’s feet on his lap, Bucky draped over the majority of the sitting space, pillows piled under his head and his knees to help cushion the walking boot on his left leg. 

“I would take this off,” Bucky says apologetically, gesturing at the boot. “Believe me, it’s uncomfortable. But can’t risk jostling the ankle, I even have to sleep with it on.”

The boot is digging into Steve’s thigh, but he can’t find it in himself to complain. Bucky’s relaxed and comfortable in his t-shirt and workout leggings, his hair tied up, loose strands curling at the ends like they tend to do unless Bucky brushes his hair out when it’s still damp. There’s a sock with an avocado pattern on his right foot. Steve likes to imagine that there’s a matching sock with a toast pattern in his boot-cased left leg.

“It’s okay,” Steve says, squeezing Bucky’s avocado foot, and gets a smile and the gentlest of kicks back.

At 9:30 p.m. they pop the expensive bottle of champagne Steve got when he left his old job, back in September. Better they drink it now to celebrate the new year than Steve downing it some weekend alone at home while he’s mooning after Bucky.

Bucky makes a thoughtful sound at the first sip. Of the two of them, he alone has a chance of understanding anything about the champagne, thanks to working for a wine importing company. The only thing Steve cares about is that it doesn’t taste like vinegar and gets him tipsy. He also cares about the way Bucky’s mouth purses when he mulls the wine, and how much Steve would like to kiss that pout, but that’s neither here nor there.

“I don’t see what's special about this,” Steve admits after a few sips because he’s a cheap hick when it comes to wine. “It’s just fizzy and tastes like yeast. We could’ve mixed any ten dollar white and some seltzer and gotten a better result.” 

“You heathen,” Bucky says, propped up on his elbow to drink, but he’s grinning, already a little flushed from the warmth of the living room and the wine. That’s something Steve loves about him—half a glass of alcohol can make Bucky rosy-cheeked and bright-eyed, even if getting him actually tipsy takes way more. “This is an acquired taste.”

“It costs  _ a hundred dollars, _ Buck. Who’s got the money to acquire taste for it? It’s awful.”

An unholy gleam lights up in Bucky’s eyes, and Steve realizes his mistake too late.  _ “Don’t _ say—”

“ _ Sometimes,” _ Bucky says loudly, talking over him.

“Don’t!”

Bucky carefully twists his torso around so that he can look at Steve dramatically over his shoulder, nearly kicking Steve in the nuts. “Things that are expensive…”

“Are worse, Caleb Gallo, I know,” Steve sighs, making Bucky cackle. 

It’s nice to see him laugh: Bucky’s been a little morose since the accident, because he had to cancel Christmas plans with his family and was stuck in New York instead of tanning and drinking himself silly with his sisters in Mexico. Steve had spent the holidays in Connecticut with his mom, but he’d been constantly thinking of Bucky. As far as he knows, Bucky and Nat—the self-appointed Christmas Grump—had spent the holidays eating thin mints and finishing two 1000-piece jigsaw puzzles. 

Maybe someday Steve can help Bucky with the jigsaw puzzles instead, kissing for every piece that finds its place.

“Next time we’ll get your seltzer wine,” Bucky promises, jolting Steve out of the embarrassingly mushy daydream, and Steve tickles the sole of his foot just for that.

They drink all of the champagne, because it’s the end of the decade, and they have nothing else.

(If Sam were there, he’d argue that  _ mathematically _ the decade wasn’t turning yet, because there had been  _ no year zero, bro, we count from one to ten, so the new decade starts in 2021. _ Steve doesn’t want to count to ten, unless it’s the amount of orgasms he and Bucky could wring out of each other in a weekend.)

*

“I’m turning thirty this year,” Steve says halfway through episode number three, absently pressing his thumbs into the arch of Bucky’s uninjured foot in an impromptu massage. “Feels weird.”

Bucky opens his eyes and looks up from where he’s comfortably slouched against his pillows, the empty glass dangling from his fingers. He’s not even watching the show, content to just listen to the chaos. “Oh right, I forgot,” he says with a shitty little grin. “Because that beard makes you look at least 35. Any day now you’ll get some silver in it.”

“Shut up,” Steve says, maybe a little unnecessarily fondly, tweaking Bucky’s big toe gently. “I know you love it.”

He’d tried out the whole beard schtick last summer when he went hiking on the Appalachian Trail with Sam, and had been pleased to see when it grew in that he didn’t have any weird bald patches: his facial hair was thick and nice like Chris Pine’s, except with way less gray. The beard had been unbearably hot during the summer, but Bucky couldn’t seem to stop staring at it, so Steve kept it, almost as reverent in taking care of it as Bucky was about his skin care routine. He’d been rewarded when the first cold day came and his ass was freezing but the lower half of his face was warm and cozy. 

And the look on Bucky’s face when he’d seen Steve on Thanksgiving, kitted in a new sweater, beard trimmed to soft perfection; the way he’d suddenly crossed his legs, slowly getting redder and redder? That had almost been enough for Steve to take him aside and confess his feelings just for the  _ prospect _ of a chance to put his bearded mouth to work between Bucky’s legs, but he’d chickened out at the last second.

An inscrutable expression flashes across Bucky’s face, but then he smiles, shrugging. “I’ll neither confirm nor deny that. So. Thirty. Having a crisis?” He shifts around a little, getting even more comfortable like he’s prepared to listen to any rant Steve might have in store, trying to stifle a yawn behind his hand.

He looks like he hasn’t been sleeping well lately: there are dark smudges under his eyes, and he’s blinking like he’s trying to stay awake even though it’s barely past 11 p.m. Maybe the injury’s been keeping him up: Bucky grew up in a family where taking an Advil was a show of weakness, because his mom believed that medical relief should be saved for ‘proper pains’. Bucky’s probably been off his pain medication since Boxing Day because he’s his mother’s boy and still thinks meds are allowed only if he’s missing a limb. 

He’s so fucking stupid. Steve loves him. 

“I don’t think so.” Steve frowns as he thinks. Sure, he quit his awful job of four years in the fall and found a better one, and he’s been eyeing flight prices to New Zealand for his inevitable soul-searching thirties trip, but he isn’t sure if that’s enough to be deemed a crisis. The only actual crisis he’s having is the fact that Bucky seems to be oblivious and Steve doesn’t know how to tell him that he wants them to mash mouths for the rest of their lives.

“You’ve got time,” Bucky yawns. At this rate he’s definitely not gonna last until midnight. “That can be your 2020 goal. Finding yourself a nice crisis. Make sure it has a nice ass.”

_ You do, _ Steve thinks, because it’s the truth. Bucky’s got an ass that’s somehow thick as hell  _ and _ perfectly round like the best-rendered peach emoji in the world. Steve wants to take a bite out of it whenever Bucky wears… well, anything.

Instead of saying all that, he asks, “What’s your goal gonna be, then?”

“You know.” Bucky shrugs, darting a quick glance at him and then avoiding Steve’s eye altogether. “Getting over a crisis.”

There’s a hesitant, wistful tone in his voice, and he twists the hem of his t-shirt nervously as he says it, making Steve feel like he’s missing something important. Before he can think of it further, though, Bucky turns to look at the TV, signaling the conversation is over, so Steve goes back to massaging Bucky’s foot, aiming his thumbs on the avocado pits. Bucky’s very warm against him.

“Hey,” Bucky says after a silence, “remember when we made that pact in, what, 2005?”

Steve heart jumps, and he’s suddenly glad Bucky’s wearing socks so he can’t tell Steve’s palms have gone clammy. He remembers the pact. He didn’t think Bucky did. “The pact?” 

“Yeah.” Bucky stretches to put his glass on the coffee table, laughs a little self-consciously, scratching his scalp. “When we swore that if we were still single by 30, we’d get married to each other.”

Steve knew what was coming, but it’s a wholly different experience to  _ hear _ Bucky say ‘get married’.

“Oh right.” Steve forces out a laugh that thankfully sounds genuine enough. “That one.”

“Yeah.” Bucky’s mouth twists into a wry little smile. “Almost 15 years, Jesus. I still think 1995 was ten years ago.”

A little less than 15 years of Steve more or less unconsciously sabotaging every relationship he’s attempted because of that jokingly made dumb teenage promise. Jesus, indeed.

“Don’t worry, Buck.” Steve pats Bucky’s ankle consolingly. It would be the perfect opportunity to tell Bucky how he feels: they’re already skirting it, and Bucky can’t exactly run away with his broken ankle. That in mind, Steve opens his big, dumb mouth—and, like he’s suddenly yeeted out of his own body, says, “I’m sure you’ll find someone and won’t have to settle for little old me.”

He panics immediately as the words leave his mouth, his grip tightening on Bucky’s foot convulsively. _What! The! Fuck!_ he yells at himself, a little brain-Steve banging pots and pans at the big beef-Steve who just fucked up majorly. He was supposed to swear his undying love! He was supposed to slide down onto the floor and propose to Bucky here and now! What’s the fucking _matter_ with him! Jail for beef-Steve for a _thousand_ _years!_

Bucky’s face falls for a split second, full of hurt, and then he’s covering it quickly, flashing a strained smile. “Haha,” he says, but his voice wobbles precariously. "Sure."

He sits up, withdrawing his legs from Steve’s lap and scooting over to the other end of the couch, groping for his crutches. “I’m gonna get some water.” His hands are shaking, and one of the crutches falls, hits the floor with a  _ thunk. _

“Bucky,” Steve says, still trying to recover from the freefall of his own stupidity, instantly missing the warmth of Bucky’s legs. He reaches out to put a hand on Bucky’s shoulder, feeling him tense up at the touch. “Hey, Bucky, talk to me.”

“It wouldn’t be settling to me,” Bucky blurts out, turning to look at Steve, and immediately slaps a hand over his mouth, like he didn’t intend the words to escape.

A shocked silence falls. Steve’s frozen in place, his hand still on Bucky’s shoulder, clenched into the t-shirt in surprise, his mouth feeling like it’s full of cotton. It wouldn’t— 

He blinks, staring at Bucky’s face that’s very red and clearly panicked. Bucky’s eyes are wide and— _ scared, _ like he thinks Steve’s going to go apeshit on him for essentially telling that he’s got feelings for Steve, and that propels Steve into action.

He draws a shaky breath, slowly unclenching his hand but cupping it around Bucky’s shoulder instead. Bucky’s fever-hot under his palm, shivering when Steve brushes a thumb over his clavicle. 

Then Steve swallows, looks Bucky in the eye and says, “It—it wouldn’t be settling to me, either.” 

Bucky stops breathing, and for a long minute they just stare at each other over the pile of pillows, before Bucky takes his hand off his mouth. “You—” 

“Are sweet on you?” Steve asks, excitement and relief making his whole body sing now that the secret is out. “Yeah. For years.”

Bucky inhales sharply, eyes suspiciously shiny. “For—” He sniffles, wipes a hand over his eyes. “Me too.” 

Steve’s eyes are burning, too, and he reaches for Bucky with both arms. Bucky brushes the pillows onto the floor and comes easily, leaning into Steve’s embrace in a way he’s never done before: hesitant and impossibly sweet, his breath trembling in his lungs. Steve squeezes him close, marveling at how beautifully Bucky fits against him now that it’s not a  _ bro _ hug anymore. It’s ridiculous to think that they could’ve had this  _ years ago, _ if they’d just gotten their heads out of their asses—they clearly were onto something when they made that pact, fifteen years ago.

Steve gets his New Year's kiss twenty minutes early, tasting like soy sauce and champagne, and it's just perfect that way; at least until Bucky breaks the kiss for a yawn so wide that his jaw clicks. 

"Fuck New Year’s, let's get you to bed," Steve says, endlessly fond. Bucky manages a nod, blinking rapidly, and Steve has to lean in for another kiss before he helps Bucky up, taking most of his weight. "I'll bring your crutches. Do you want me to stay the night?"

“Yeah. But you don’t—” Bucky yawns again and turns his face into Steve’s shoulder as they hobble slowly to the bathroom so that Bucky can brush his teeth. “You don’t have to. I might kick. With the boot.”

“I want to,” Steve says, because he’s slept in the same bed with Bucky numerous times but never gotten the chance to  _ hold _ him. “Kick me, I don’t care. I’m gonna be the happiest idiot in New York anyway.”

Bucky chokes out a watery laugh. “Just New York, huh?”

“Yeah,” Steve says, turning his nose into Bucky’s topknot and pressing a kiss there. “They say New York is the whole world.”

Bucky falls asleep about five seconds after Steve slides into bed with him, the booted foot propped up on another mound of pillows. Steve lies in the dark, holding him, Bucky’s head tucked under his chin, and listens to the year change for the better.

*

On the first day of the new decade, after a shower that lasts so long that the water gets cold, Steve takes Bucky to bed, lifts the injured leg over his shoulder and eats Bucky out until there’s beard burn all over his ass, and Steve’s back is bruised from accidental kicks of the boot. 

Start the new year doing what you love, they say, so Steve does Bucky, and it turns out to set the precedent for the whole decade.

***

**Author's Note:**

> [twitter](http://www.twitter.com/badrohmance) | [tumblr](http://rohkeutta.tumblr.com)
> 
> [the Caleb Gallo scene](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RbhcRKsRwFM) for those who don't know it.


End file.
